Tiny gifts

Sometimes the universe drops tiny gifts in your lap.

Sometimes a small victory, a shared laugh and connections made build one upon another to renew your confidence that life will always sort itself out.

Sometimes, when you express yourself from the heart; when you ask for a sign that someone or something is rooting for you and your family, the universe answers.

And it says yes.

My late friend Grace's book, about her battle with chronic illness, arrived on my doorstep just a week before my mother-in-law went to the hospital suffering symptoms which we now know are a result of cancer of the lymph nodes.

The comment from Grace's mother - a pastor at a tiny church in northern Canada - arrived just hours after I posted my ruminations on her life, her faith and the meaning of her reemergence in my psyche and my life. The e-mail from Grace's sister - who runs a centre for victims of sexual assault not far from where I live - came shortly afterwards.

Both these women, who I met just once more than 17 years ago, thanked me - me! - for what I had written about Grace and expressed how much my words had meant to them. And while I am profoundly humbled that something I wrote has brought them some measure of comfort, I am also gratified and awed that these connections, fostered across cyberspace, by way of this space, have brought me a renewed faith that my life, however trying at times, is indeed unfolding in the manner in which it was intended.

Yes, the end of last week was much better than the beginning, the timbre of which was characterized by this post about how inadequate I felt for having neither the energy nor the inclination to potty-train.

Just hours after I heard from Grace's sister and returned home to Rob and Graham after a much-needed, post-meeting wine and gab session with two work colleagues - wonderful women who I now proudly call friends - there was a surprise in store.

"Go ahead, Graham," Rob said. "Show mommy what we've been working on while she was at work."

And over to the potty chair my boy went. And with the biggest, proudest smile you have ever seen, he sat right down.

Yes, he was wearing a diaper. And yes, he was fully clothed. But Graham sat right on the potty, cheerfully and without apparent fear of the monsters he has long insisted reside inside.

I never thought such a little thing could make me feel so hopeful.

Hopeful not just about potty training, but about everything else, because Graham overcoming his fear and stubborn resistance so suddenly demonstrates to me that we are never truly stuck and that people and situations always evolve.

And I never thought that such a little thing could make me feel so proud: proud because it demonstrates to me that me and my little boy and my little family are capable of working on anything together and getting results.

Monsters Inc.

Anyone want to take a guess what these three items have in common?

Yes, they are all decorative items found in my home.

But more significantly they have all over the last few days been identified by Graham as "Scary monsters."

I figure this is both good and bad news.

The bad news is I may have to do some redecorating.

The good news is, despite my earlier fears, I feel pretty confident that I could indeed kick these monsters' collective butts.

Well...except maybe for that one moose.

I mean, he has a paddle.

Monsters be here

Rob and I went out Saturday night.

We needed it.

There has been no work for film and television workers in our city since the writers’ strike last winter and there is little on the horizon. It has been a bitter last several months for a million and one reasons and occasional nights out help keep our spirits up.

Rob's mom called just as we sat down to dinner.

Graham had thrown up and his nose was running – did I know where his cold medicine was?

There was no need to come home, she assured us. He was going back to sleep. He would be fine.

We didn’t need much convincing, to be honest and so we stayed and enjoyed a lovely, if rushed, meal. We called again as we settled up, hoping to get the all-clear to catch the first set of a band at a local bar.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “He hasn't gone to sleep. He’s really miserable and calling for his mother.”

We rushed right home of course. And I burst through the door and swept up my tired, whimpering boy into my arms and into our spare room where we settled. He clung to me even as I shimmied out of my funky dress and kicked off my heels.

It was 10:15 p.m. I wasn’t the least bit tired. I was in full makeup and my earrings dug in as I struggled to get comfortable with him sprawled across my chest. It was going to be a long night.

We lay together like that for long while. Gradually Graham’s whimpering subsided and his breathing grew more and more rhythmic.

But similar relaxation eluded me. There in the dark it wasn’t long before the worries I had been hoping to avoid that evening began to crowd my mind and fill my chest with a familiar heaviness: the unpaid bills, the stress, the future viability of our livelihood.

And then Graham suddenly awoke with a start.

“Monsters mama!” he cried, his voice thick with sleep and fear. “They scary! They scary monsters mama!”

I pulled him close to me and rubbed his back.

“No, no sweetie, there are no monsters here,” I said, pressing my lips to his head and tasting his salty dampness. “Mama is here and she’s stronger than any monster in the world.”

I felt him relax slightly. “Monsters?” he whimpered.

“No Graham. There are no monsters here, your mama is here.”

He sighed, flopped over with a contented gurgle and promptly fell back asleep.

But I lay there awake late into the night, listening to the rise and fall of his breath and the ticking of the clock. And as the darkness deepened I couldn't help but contemplate life and fear and whether I was indeed strong enough to keep the monsters at bay.